I might have laughed, though I didn't. "And you have established Lord Marmion's innocence?"
"I have established that Lord Marmion Shahrizai lives in covert terror of his cousin's retribution." Retrieving her flogger, she examined its braided thongs. "While you, who gave the very testimony that condemned her, do not seem partic ularly concerned at the prospect. You know, I told Barquiel to let me play you a time or two, but no, he was impatient."
"It wouldn't have mattered." The loops around my wrists really were cunningly tied.
"Probably not." Amusement returned to Nicola's voice. "But I would have enjoyed it, all the same. And he's not likely to fund another such excursion, now that I've botched this one."
I gave up on the knots. "My lady, the fault is mine, and I will remand your patron-fee. My laughter was inappropri ate and inexcusable, and I can only beg your forgiveness.”
Nicola looked at me a long time without speaking, her gaze thoughtful. "You
did
suspect him, didn't you? Cousin Barquiel."
"Yes." I didn't add that I was not entirely convinced of his innocence. If there was anyone on my list clever enough to throw off suspicion by turning the tables, it was Barquiel L'Envers.
"Why not Marmion?"
"I did, for a while. But..." I shook my head, forgetting the ropes, and drew in my breath sharply at the resulting friction. "You're right, though," I said when I recovered myself. "He's truly afraid." I shifted, trying in vain to ease the cord's tension. "Nicola, I swear to you, on Elua's name, I did not conspire to free Melisande Shahrizai."
Her purple gaze continued to regard me. "Do you know who did?"
"No." In one reckless phrase, I cast the dice. "Not yet."
Why I risked trusting her with that much, I cannot say; it was born in part out of my abiding frustration and lone liness, of that much I am sure. Then too, it is a matter of pride to me that I have never yet misjudged a patron. Whatever her motives, Nicola was that—she'd had me well in hand indeed, before mentioning Melisande's name. I watched her full lips curve in a smile.
"I knew it would be interesting," she said softly, caressing the flogger, "crossing wits with you, Phèdre nó Delaunay. It is worth the price of losing, to see how it is done." Nicola circled me, letting the lashes trail over my skin, making me shudder. "This is what your patrons see, isn't it?" she mused. "This beautiful, abject flesh, trembling in supplication. Forgetting all the while..." pausing, she raised my chin with her fingertips, "... that behind those great dark eyes, shining with tears, lies a subtle, calculating mind. It's so, isn't it?"
"Yes," I whispered, trembling.
"I like to see you cry." Cupping my cheek, Nicola brushed her thumb along my eyelashes, then licked the glistening, salty wetness from her skin; Elua, I could have died! She truly was good. House L'Envers was Naamah's lineage, but there must be Kusheline blood in there somewhere. I'd always wondered why their arms featured the bridge over the river of Hell. It was a good thing it was sufficiently diffused in Ysandre; House Courcel was descended in a straight line from Blessed Elua. "But," Nicola said, jerking my attention back to her, "I will always wonder what else you are thinking when you do."
In truth, I did not think a great deal after that; not then, and not for a time to come. I daresay Nicola got her fee's worth after all. It is a considerably difficult thing, to thoroughly please a patron when one is constrained to suffer unbearable pleasure at the slightest movement—and it is harder, too, to please women than men, who are simpler to gratify. On this, Naamah's Servants agree; one is trained half again as long for it in the Night Court. Well, I have never disgraced my training, with man or woman, and I did not that day. But there were a few times when I had to pause, writhing in my bonds, and Nicola's laughter rang in my ears. She punished me with the flogger, then, which only made it worse.
So it is, with patrons of mine. Naught pleases them so well as the exercise of power; and by virtue of Kushiel's Dart, I am the perfect instrument for their desires.
"Take it." Nicola laughed and pushed the purse back across the table. "You earned it, in the end. I have no complaints of you, Phèdre; and it's Barquiel's money, after all."
"I know." I smiled, but shook my head. "No, my lady. If I have made amends for my misstep, I am pleased. But I cannot in conscience take this fee."
Toying with the purse-strings, she frowned. "You know I contracted you under false circumstances."
"Well." I shrugged. "That may be, but I am Naamah's Servant still, and in her service, I erred. Naamah cares naught for politics and espionage. I cannot accept this fee."
"You really mean that?" She sounded surprised; I nodded.
"Well, I would scarce say you failed her!" Nicola smiled, her eyes heavy-lidded. "Nonetheless, if I keep it, I will have your patron-fee still. Would you accept, if I offered?"
I glanced involuntarily at the silken cords lying coiled and harmless on the carpet. "Yes," I said, my voice rough-edged with desire. "You do ... you do tie a skillful knot."
"Good." Nicola took back the purse, the matter settled. "Ramiro likes to be tied. My husband," she added, catching my puzzled glance. "But it's not nearly so pleasing a sight. You're a great deal more fun, and considerably more skilled. Besides, I never have the slightest interest in knowing what he's thinking. And when you come to it, he's probably cost me more than you."
I had to ask. "My lady ... you didn't tie Lord Marmion, did you?"
"No." She laughed. "I can play Valerian as well as Man drake, if I have to. Anything, to get out of Aragonia for a time," A non-D'Angeline wouldn't have known what she meant; I did. They are the houses of pain, in the Night Court. Where Valerian receives, Mandrake gives. "I'd rather the latter, but..." She shrugged. "I am interested by variety. And the Shahrizai are ... well, you know."
I knew. "I wondered," I said aloud.
"Yes, well." Nicola looked down, frowned, and met my eyes. "I'm quite sure he killed his sister," she said softly. "Why do you suppose he would do that, if he were inno cent?"
I could have dissembled; I thought about it, an expression of shock at the ready. In the end, I didn't. "She wasn't," I said bluntly. "I think she played a part in Melisande's escape, and Marmion knew it. His mistake was confronting her. He didn't know who her ally was; I think she threatened him, and he killed her rather than call her bluff. Now he's well and truly isolated himself. He's right, to be frightened; I don't blame him for that. But he's an idiot to think it's me. I don't hold that kind of sway."
"Mmm." Nicola looked speculative. "I don't know about that. Ysandre rallied her nation for invasion and civil war, on your bare word—if Marmion thinks she'd trust your con demnation, he may not be wrong. Nonetheless ..." She chuckled. "You and cousin Barquiel, all at cross-purposes, suspecting each other. It's Anafiel Delaunay all over again, with him! Just think, if they'd made peace earlier. All they ever wanted was the same thing; Ysandre de la Courcel on the throne."
"Mayhap," I said slowly. "But there was blood between them, bad blood. Edmée de Rocaille was a friend of Delau nay's. And not even the Duc denies his sister Isabel was responsible for her death."
It was an old story, that one; a portion of the puzzle Hy acinthe and I had spent so many hours piecing together. I was not even born when Edmée de Rocaille died, who was betrothed to Prince Rolande. A hunting accident, it was said—but the girth of her saddle had been cut, and Edmée had a bitter rival in Isabel L'Envers, who bore no love for the Prince's poet-consort, Anafiel Delaunay. Edmée de Rocaille had been his friend since childhood. Although it cost him the favor of the court and nearly Rolande's regard, my lord Delaunay wrote a deadly satire about Isabel L'Envers, blackening her name. Since then, he and her brother Barquiel had been dire enemies. I was but a babe in arms when Rolande was slain in battle. As for Isabel, whom Rolande had wed in the end, I remembered her death; I'd been a child, in Cereus House.
It meant as little to Nicola as to me: She shrugged. "And your Delaunay's verses named Isabel a murderess on every one's tongue," she concluded. "Well and so, it's naught to do with you, Phèdre, nor with me. What would you say, if I offered to help you? What would you have me do?"
It was tempting; Elua, it was tempting! "Why?"
"Because." Nicola frowned. "Because you're damnably good at what you do, so good that I daresay no one else within fifty leagues of the City even knows you're doing it. When this is over, Barquiel will ship me back to Aragonia, whether I will it or no, and my only hope of gaining stature lies in intrigue. That, and the fact that my cousin Ysandre de la Courcel retains her seat on the throne of Terre d'Ange. Is that reason enough?" She smiled, then, that heavy-lidded smile. "Besides, it may afford another occasion for dalli ance. And that would please me for its own sake. So tell me, what might I do?"
I had been thinking, all the while she spoke. "Do you know the Marquise Solaine Belfours?"
'Tall and haughty? Secretary of the Privy Seal?" Nicola laughed. "I know her. Why?"
"I need occasion to question her, without her suspecting. If you were to hold a fête and invite us both ..."
"I can do that." Nicola cocked her head at me and jingled the purse with my erstwhile patron's fee. "With this. Will you tell me why?"
"No." I shook my head.
"Well, then." She glanced at the white cords, such simple objects, lying in limp and dormant coils on the rich-toned carpet. "If you will not trust me, Phèdre, I will not do it for free, I think. Such are the lessons of intrigue I am learning. If I do as you ask, will you give me leave to question you about it? In a manner of my choosing?"
I have bartered myself for aught other than money before; it was not the first time. I gave myself to the Duc de Morhban in exchange for passage across his land. I would like to say that I thought it over carefully, and weighed the gain; in truth, I followed her gaze and looked once more at those damnable ropes. "You may question me to your heart's de sire, my lady," I murmured.
"Oh, good," Nicola said cheerfully. "I was hoping you'd say that."
TWENTY-ONE
Nicola's fête was considered a success all-round.
My patron-fee was a considerable amount, though less than the twenty thousand Severio had paid. Still, it was enough to throw an outstanding gathering. I learned, in the course of the evening, that Nicola was renowned in Aragonia for her hostessing skills. I'd not have guessed it, ere that.
The fête took place in one of the salons in the diplomats' wing of the Palace, and it had an Aragonian flavor, with a leisurely meal featuring course after course of spicy deli cacies, and a goodly amount of hearty red wine poured with a free hand by servants in Aragonian attire. Afterward came music and dancers, fiddles and timbales marking the beat, while women danced in flounced skirts; I daresay among the guests, only Joscelin and I recognized a strong Tsingani influence.
The highlight of the evening was a quartet of players Ni cola had hired to stage a pantomime. Skilled performers to a man, they played out a D'Angeline version of the Ara gonian bull-fight. It gave me a shiver, when the "bull" emerged; clad all in padded black, hose showing his well-shaped legs, but above the neck, a towering bull's head with long, wicked horns curving high into the air. The picadors in their gilt-threaded jackets danced with the bull, prodding and whirling away, setting their barbed picks in cleverly placed padding while the bull-dancer's steps grew slower and more deliberate, massive head lowering.
And then came the matador, the death-bringer, carrying cape and sword, bowing and flourishing. I gasped along with all the others as the matador's blade flashed toward the bull's neck. The shining edge of the sword cut clean, shear ing through the papier-mâché bull's head, which fell tum bling to the floor. Out spilled an abundance of candies and trinkets, and the player's own human head poked grinning from the truncated bull-neck of his costume. Everyone ap plauded, then, and skirmished good-naturedly for the spoils. Nicola smiled, and ordered casks of sweet, nutty Aragonian brandy to be breached and poured all around, and we laughed and toasted her cunning entertainment, while the players bowed to considerable accolades.
Amid the dancing and mingling that followed, I nodded a cue to Joscelin, who nodded in reply and waited as I made my way to greet Solaine Belfours.
Her demeanor had changed not a wit since I had first encountered her at Alcuin's debut; a little older, perhaps, but no less arrogant. Her golden brows arched, and she looked down her nose at me as I greeted her.
"Phèdre nó Delaunay... de Montrève, is it? You've come a long way from scrubbing my floors, little Comtesse," she said coolly. I could not help but flush a little at that; she had always known, the Marquise Belfours, how to gall me. Among my old patrons, she was one I did not miss, and I was glad she had made me no proposals.
"My lady," I said with all the sincerity I could muster, "we are both in service to her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, and it does not become us, this ill will between us."
Solaine Belfours gave a rather delicate snort of laughter. "I would be more like to believe you, Comtesse, if you had not counseled her majesty to replace me."
At that moment, Joscelin joined us, tripping over someone's leg and staggering a little, sloshing the glass of brandy he held, his face open and guileless. I swear, if I'd not known better, I'd have believed him half-drunk. Somewhere, my Cassiline had missed his calling as a player of no little renown. Hyacinthe had guessed better than he knew, when he put a Mendacant's cloak on Joscelin Verreuil. "Forgive me, my lady!" he exclaimed, offering a sweeping cross-armed bow and spilling brandy on her shoe. "Oh, oh! Twice over, I beg your forgiveness!"
Blessed Elua, but he was good! I would have kissed him, if he'd have let me; as it was, I bit my lip and made a courteous introduction.
"Oh!" Joscelin said, widening his gorgeous summer-blue eyes at her and swaying on his feet. "You would know, then, my lady of the Privy Seal ... my lady, I am writing a treatise on the history of the Cassiline Brotherhood and House Courcel, very interesting stuff, to be sure..." Swaying, he placed one hand clumsily on her arm and peered at her. "Pray, my lady, mayhap you would help me gather information?"
